At the end of three months Garth again came home.  No hero from the scenes of battle was ever more royally received, and an afternoon reception was held, when patriotic songs were sung and an uncle of the young man made a speech.

Soon after that Garth went to Toronto and took another course, because his mother thought it was only right for him to see his own country first, before going abroad; and, besides, no commission had yet been offered him.  The short-sightedness of those in authority was a subject which Mrs. Brunton often dwelt on, but she said she could not help being glad.

Meanwhile the war went wearily on; battalion after battalion went out and scattering remnants came home.  Empty sleeves, rolled trousers legs, eyes that stared, and heads that rolled pitifully appeared on the streets.  On the sunshiny afternoons many of these broken men sat on the verandas of the Convalescent Home and admired the smart young lieutenant who went whistling by—­and wondered what force he was with.

The war went on to the completion of its third year.  Garth had attended classes in three cities, and had traveled Canada from end to end.  There had been four farewell parties and three receptions in his honor.  He came home again for what his mother termed “a well-earned rest.”

He sat on the veranda one day luxuriously ensconced in a wicker chair, smoking a cigarette whose blue wreaths of smoke he blew gayly from him.  He was waiting for the postman—­one of Mae’s letters had evidently gone astray, and the postman, who seemed to be a stupid fellow, had probably given it to some one else.  He had made several mistakes lately, and Garth determined that it was time he was reprimanded—­the young officer would attend to that.

“Posty” came at last, a few minutes late again, and Garth rapped imperiously with his cane, as “Posty,” peering at the addresses of the letters, came up the steps.

“See here,” cried Garth, “let me see what you have!”

“Posty” started nervously and the letters dropped from his hands.  While he gathered them up, Garth in his most military manner delivered himself of a caustic rebuke:—­

“You have left letters here which belong elsewhere, and I have lost letters through your carelessness.  What is the matter with you anyway—­can’t you read?” he snapped.

“Yes, sir,” stammered “Posty,” flushing as red as the band on his hat.

“Well, then,” went on the young officer, “why don’t you use your eyes—­where do you keep them anyway?”

“Posty” stood at attention as he answered with measured deliberation:—­

“I have one of them here ... but I left the other one at Saint-Eloi.  Were you thinking of hunting it up for me, sir,—­when—­you—­go—­over?”

* * * * *

That was six weeks ago.  Still the war goes on.  Returned men walk our streets, new pale faces lie on hospital pillows, telegraph boys on wheels carry dread messages to the soldiers’ homes.